Advice to Young Heroes
by fantasydancer
Summary: More appropriately titled "Captain Treville's Fool Musketeers." The three Inseparables run into a bit of trouble with the Red Guards and just possibly the King. It's up to the captain to bail them out, like always. Warning: Violence, and whippings. Not too harsh. more like a parental spanking. (Title taken from the song, though it doesn't have anything to do with it.)


**_A/N: Although this is based off of BBC's representation of the boys, I couldn't help but think of the section below from the book. It gave me the most splendid idea for this fanfic. I really would like to do one with all the boys, including D'Art. The problem was that I couldn't think of a time for it to take place, nor a scenario from the show. This idea actually came more from the book, but I thought it fit better in the TV show's world. Also, I'm going by the ages the characters are in the books, since I picture them relatively better that way, rather than the ages of the actual actors on the show. Athos is about thirty, Porthos is about twenty-six, and Aramis is twenty-two. This takes place about six months before D'Art joins them. _**

**_Warning: Violence, and whippings (Not too harsh, but somewhat graphically described. All in all, it's rather more like a parental spanking than a judicial affair.)_**

**_Disclaimer: If I owned them, would I seriously be writing fanfiction? Sadly they belong to BBC and Alexandre Dumas._**

"_His soldiers formed a legion of devil-may-care fellows, perfectly undisciplined toward all but himself._

_Loose, half-drunk, imposing, the king's Musketeers, or rather M. de Treville's, spread themselves about in the cabarets, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twisting their mustaches, clanking their swords, and taking great pleasure in annoying the Guards of the cardinal whenever they could fall in with them; then drawing into the open streets, as if it were the best of all possible sports; sometimes killed, but sure in that case to be wept and avenged; often killing others, but then certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Treville being there to claim them. Thus M. de Treville was praised to the highest note by these men, who adored him, and who, ruffians as they were, trembled before him like scholars before their master, obedient to his least word, and ready to sacrifice themselves to wash out the smallest insult._" –_The Three Musketeers_, Alexandre Dumas

* * *

"Porthos." Athos warned. He slouched in his chair at the table beside his friend, downing his fifth glass.

"What?" The burly man protested. "I won the game fairly."

The man, a Red Guard, whom Porthos had been playing cards against, stood heatedly. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. "I saw it! It was hid up your sleeve!" He thundered.

The Red Guard was a short, burly man with a squashed nose, and fine black hair that he kept hanging long and stringy past his shoulders. He was known as Michel, in Paris, however, it had been heavily implied that before joining the Red Guards, it was not his real name. His eyes now darkened as he realized he had been played so thoroughly and so well by this arrogant musketeer. He growled lowly, "You'll pay, boy."

"Ooh." Porthos teased, flashing his teeth. "Are you going to teach me a lesson?"

Athos shook his head, and gestured for the barkeep to bring him a new bottle. He suspected it would be a long night.

The door opened halfway through the brawl, emitting a very cheery looking Aramis. He had been visiting with the Cardinal's mistress again, no doubt, Athos thought. He nodded his head in acknowledgement as his friend carefully picked his way over and sat down in the seat across from him. Aramis jerked his head towards the center of the near empty tavern where Porthos and Michel had knocked over several tables in the wake of their fight. "I see the children are getting some exercise, hmm?"

Athos grunted in reply before pouring himself another cup of wine. Thankfully, the tavern patron was in a pretty good mood today. Either that, or he just didn't want trouble with the Musketeers or the Red Guards, so he let the brawl continue with only a gruffly barked, "Mind the vase. It was me ma's."

Moments later, a shattering sound filled the air. The barkeep, wiping down a mug, grunted, "Good riddance."

Athos snorted, and Aramis ran his fingers through his hair. He picked up the nearly half empty bottle of wine that Athos was drowning himself in, and prepared to take a sip when Athos smacked at his hand with a growl, "Give it back."

Aramis stared at him. "I was only going to take a taste."  
Athos snatched the bottle from his friend and took a long swig himself before muttering, "Yes, but I don't know where your lips have been."

Aramis' ears flushed pink. He grumbled under his breath good-naturedly, turning his eyes back to the fight. There were few customers left as it was, so not many saw Porthos pick up the chair and smash it over the Red Guard's head, rendering the latter unconscious. Aramis nodded approvingly, snatched up the bottle of wine before Athos could protest, and made his way over to his grinning friend. Aramis tossed his arm around Porthos' shoulder and gulped at the drink. "Ah, what a lovely night."

Porthos snorted, snatching the bottle from Aramis' hands and taking a long draught of his own. He looked down at the prone Red Guard and nodded. "Yes. It is."

The three friends left shortly after that, not wishing to be there when Michel woke. They stumbled a bit, Athos and Porthos from the wine, and Aramis from the memories of Adele's company. The tavern they'd chosen was farther from the garrison than usual. Coincidentally, this meant that they, impaired as they were, took several wrong turns. Paris was a winding city, with streets like mazes, and even those who had lived there their entire lives occasionally lost their way. They were also so caught up in conversation that none realized they were being tailed—until the stranger stepped into their path, a gun poised. "Which of you is the musketeer Porthos?" he demanded.

The three Inseparables halted, their hands going to their swords. Porthos stepped forward warily. "What's this about?"

At least a dozen other men stepped from the shadows, and the three musketeers mentally cursed themselves for having been caught off guard. They were Red Guards.

"You killed our friend," the speaker continued, "We found his body in Pierre's Tavern. The keep told us you had done it."

"Then he's a liar," Porthos growled.

Athos was sure that the barkeep had only confessed to such after being threatened. Recognizing his friend's fighting stance, he stepped in front of Porthos, placing a restraining hand on his arm. He made his tone as reasonable as possible. "I believe what my friend is trying to say is that the keep must have been confused. Porthos did not kill your friend. He merely rendered him unconscious. It was harmless brawl, and nothing more."

"His skull was crushed." Another guard spoke, stepping forward.

Aramis cursed under his breath. He knew he should have checked the man. But the slurs the Guard had made against Porthos in the brawl had incensed him to the point that he hadn't cared to check the man's health.

"It was mistake." Athos argued, but already he prepared to draw his sword.

"Mistake or no, he is dead, and we will not rest until his murderer's blood stains this ground. We have no quarrel with the two of you," he gestured to Aramis and Athos, "If you're smart, you'll stay out of it."

"Then consider us fools," Aramis stated with a flourish, drawing his sword.

The one who spoke first lunged, dropping the pistol and drawing his own blade. He brought it down in a stroke that would have split Porthos from head to shoulder. Steel rang on steel as Porthos, having drawn his sword in the nick of time, brought his blade up to meet the guard's own.

The other men rushed on Athos and Aramis, engaging them into the melee as well. Utter chaos reigned as the men fought. Athos sparred with three guards, while Aramis took on three more. Porthos took out two men, within moments, with blows to the head. He fisted another's shirt in his hands and threw him headfirst into a cart. The precariously stacked crates inside tipped over and fell, causing mounds of vegetables to tumble into the street.

"What merchant leaves their wares in the street at night anyhow?" Aramis grumbled, leaping over a pile of potatoes and falling back with a hard blow to his sword.

_Those who are too reliant upon the King's Musketeers probably_, Athos thought dryly.

But despite the grave situation the three had found themselves in, they had soon disarmed, and incapacitated all of their adversaries. This time, the Musketeers did check to make sure that none were dead. Most were wounded, and nearly all unconscious. Captain Treville warned his men enough about fighting with Red Guards that they generally did their best to keep casualties to a minimum.

"_Mondieu_!" A voice cried suddenly from behind them.

The three whirled around to see a short, plump man standing on his doorstep, clothed in only a night shirt. He shook fiercely, calling upon his rather irate temper, for he was a small man and used to being taken advantage of. "You three will pay for what damage you have caused here tonight, or I'll take it to the king first thing in the morning!"

The three friends shared a look. Taking something like this to the king could mean a death sentence. Paying would cost much money, and they had little of it as it was. Athos sighed, producing his coin purse. "Our apologies, Monsieur. It was not our intention to wreak such havoc. Please except this as payment." He handed the man a handful of livres. "I hope this more than covers the damage done, now if you'll excuse us, we must take our leave." He grabbed his hat from where it lay on the ground beside a drooling guard, brushed it off and placed it low on his head.

The three musketeers set a hurried pace, Porthos only pausing long enough to give a guard a good kick in the head when he stirred and groaned.

"It was hardly a fair fight for them," Aramis commented as they turned towards the garrison, "It was only thirteen to three." He grinned while Porthos chuckled and Athos smirked.

What better way to end the day than by putting a few Red Guards in their place?

* * *

"Would any of you care to explain why there are twelve severely injured Red Guards, and one _dead_?"

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis carefully avoided their captain's severe gaze. None of them dared to answer his ominously asked demand.

Treville raised an eyebrow at the men before him. They were tense as bow strings, each mirroring the other from the way they stood, feet apart, hands clasped in front of them clutching their hats that they had removed in show of respect, and their chastened gazes carefully avoiding his own.

"Perhaps I should put it to you this way," he began casually, leaning back in his chair, "The king has ordered that whoever was responsible for this is to be punished severely." Actually, it wasn't so much the king as the Cardinal. "As you well know, dueling is forbidden and the usual sentence for such a deed is death. If the culprit or _culprits_ are found, they are to be taken before the king himself and _tried for_ _murder_!" Treville's voice rose in volume as he spoke. Now he stood quickly, his chair flying backwards, and falling over in the process. He strode around his desk in two quick paces to stand before three of perhaps the greatest musketeers he'd ever known. He studied them for a long moment. With a spark of pride he realized that none of them flinched. But the feeling of pride was short lived as Aramis opened his mouth.

"It was pure self-defense," he tried meekly, smiling slightly.

Treville was not humored. "You didn't kill the other twelve. Instead, you gave over half of them concussions!"

Aramis looked down again, his knuckles turning white on the brim of his hat.

"Captain." Athos stepped forward slightly, waiting for permission to speak.

Treville nodded his assent. "Yes."

"We did not intend to start the duel, and especially not in a public place. They were mostly drunk and drew first."

"They instigated the fight?"

"For the most part. But," Athos paused, glancing at his friends. He drew another breath before continuing. "We are not entirely blameless."

Porthos' fists clenched. This did not go unnoticed by the captain who turned to him and asked, "Porthos, is there anything you would like to add?"

The larger man's jaw twitched. He growled, "The Red Guards are a damned nuisance."

"Anything else?"

Still not raising his eyes, the man answered, in a much more respectful tone, "They said I had killed one of their friends."

Treville nodded. "And did you?"

"I don't know. I didn't think so. It was just a brawl over cards, Captain. I smashed a chair over his head, but I'm nearly certain I didn't kill him."

Aramis placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, "I should have checked the man. We could have hidden the body."  
Treville shook his head. "I don't want you to hide the body; I want you to stop killing Red Guards."

Porthos' back straightened. "I accept full responsibility for the incident, sir."

It was Athos' turn to place a hand on Porthos' arm. "We all joined the fight, and spurred it on," Athos continued, "We are _all_ at fault for this incident. Not just Porthos."

"Athos, they were out for me."

"Which means they were out for all of us," Aramis added, stepping forward to look Porthos in the eye.

Treville sighed heavily, sagging back against his desk, and crossing his arms. His musketeers stood quietly, awaiting their sentence. The captain rubbed a hand over his eyes and graying hair. His office was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Very well. I have another proposition for you. And if you are to hear it, I expect the respect of at least meeting my gaze. The three warily did so, and Treville continued, "I have pleaded with the king personally that if this culprit or these culprit_s_ should be of my own respectable musketeer regiment that he allow me to see to the punishment myself. He agreed."

"But why was it you immediately suspected us, if they didn't know who did it?" Aramis interrupted sharply. Athos discreetly elbowed his Spanish friend, hard enough to be a reminder not to interrupt the captain again.

Treville turned quickly to him, his face mere inches away from Aramis' own. His voice was deadly. "Because when something goes wrong in Paris that involves Red Guards, it _always_ involves you three."

Aramis' eyes flitted downward.

Treville straightened and stepped back. "All three of you, remove your weapons and bare yourself from the waist down. Place your hands on the wall, and stand with your feet apart. You're not to move until I return."

With that Treville turned, and made towards the armory.

The three men (well at the moment they felt much more like naughty school boys) slowly began to remove their various weapons, discarding them on the floor. They unlaced their leather armor, Athos folding his carefully, Porthos gathering his into a pile, and Aramis dropping the articles to the ground wherever they happened to land. Finally, they stood in only their undershirts, and braes.

The captain had yet to return. It was obvious he was waiting for their full compliance before doing so. Athos moved first towards the wall, his blood pounding in his ears. He was quickly followed by Porthos, who stood to his left, and Aramis, who took his right. It wasn't that any of them had a problem with seeing the other naked, nor with actually being naked in front of the others. They were soldiers after all. They all slept in the same garrison, bathed in the same bathhouse, and furthermore they were the best of friends. But there was something about stripping in the captain's office that had the three of them blushing, even Aramis.

"I'm not ready for this." Porthos muttered, his hands going to is waist.

"And you think we are?" Aramis' face was pale.

"I need a drink." Athos added as they bared themselves completely and got into position.

"Or several." Porthos snorted quietly.

"I had an appointment with Madame Basset tonight."

Porthos looked over at his Spanish friend. "I guess you'll be canceling that."

Aramis' eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Of course not! This is all the more reason to spend the night in the arms of a beautiful woman who will croon over my pains."

Athos rolled his eyes, but they all three fell silent when they heard boots thumping across the room behind them. They waited in anxious silence as Treville locked the door and checked to window latches.

Aramis sucked a deep breath and let it out slowly as they heard the captain drawing nearer. None dared turn their heads, but they all tensed, uncertain of how Treville intended to go about the task at hand.

The captain paused to Aramis' left, shaking out the ten leather tails of the martinet he intended to use. "You will each receive twenty-five." He explained. "If you move out of position, we will start over. However, take it as you will. I won't shame you for tears or for showing your pain. Are there any questions?"

"Yeah." It was Porthos. "If Aramis starts acting like a ninny and moves out of position, does that mean that you start over with all of us or just him."

Aramis' head shot up to glare at his friend over Athos's back. "And why, dear Porthos, are you saying it's _me_, who'll be acting like a ninny?"

Porthos grinned, "Don't you always?"

Athos stomped Porthos' foot, while Treville tapped the martinet warningly against Aramis' bare legs. "That's quite enough," he ordered firmly, "And to answer your question Porthos, no. That applies to each as an individual, not a whole."

The boys found it only slightly relieving that their friends wouldn't suffer further for their own folly.

"If that is all, we will begin. Aramis," the Spaniard tensed, "You're first."

Treville moved back a bit testing for distance before taking position at Aramis' side. He gently folded Aramis' shirt out of the way, resting a quick reassuring hand on his musketeer's back before stepping back to begin.

When the blow fell, Athos and Porthos flinched. Aramis' eyes widened at the immediate sting, and he instantly bit his lip to prevent a gasp from escaping. His friends averted their eyes to allow him that dignity at least.

The captain moved at a slow and steady pace to allow the sting time to set in between each blow. At stroke five, as the tails bit low on his thighs, Aramis let out a hissed breath. By ten, he was curling his toes against the wood floor in an attempt to take his mind off of the heat and throbbing pain radiating from his backside. Unshed tears of shame and pain stung his eyes. At fifteen he let out a muffled yelp, and would have nearly reached around to stop the chastisement had Athos not grabbed Aramis' hand and pinned it under his own.

Athos felt terrible, listening to his friend being punished. Aramis' occasional muffled gasps and exclamations only served to tear at his heart. Athos would gladly have taken all of their punishments. It was, after all, his duty as the oldest to protect his younger brothers, whether the incident was his fault or no. He'd never been much of one for physical closeness, but he thought he at least owed it to Aramis to keep him from having a prolonged chastisement.

Porthos, perhaps the most guilt-ridden of them all, could hardly control himself. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to tear the instrument from the captain's hands. He felt sick. Here his friends were, taking the blame for a mistake he made.

By the time the last stroke fell Aramis was panting hard. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and he only then realized Athos' warm hand on his own.

"Twenty-five. We're done, Aramis." Treville's tone was softer than before. "Please stay in position until I have finished with the others." Aramis nodded his understanding, a few of the tears slipping down his cheeks. "Athos," the captain's tone hardened slightly, "You're next."

"No," It was Porthos speaking, his teeth clenched, "No, please, Captain." He straightened, tears filling his eyes as he took in the hunched figure of Aramis. "Please, sir," his voice broke, "Athos had nothing to do with it."

The captain's voice was patient. "Porthos, you are all equally responsible for this. It was an accident, but it could have been prevented had the three of you been acting like the respectable musketeers I know you to be."

"But—"

"Porthos." Both his friend's spoke at once.

The man in question wavered, but he slowly returned to his position against the wall. Athos squeezed his arm, the small gesture saying more than any words could.

"Now to carry on," the captain continued as if nothing had happened, "Athos."

Athos tensed in preparation for the blow, his head up and his eyes open, staring blankly at the wall ahead. He was uncomfortably aware of his vulnerable position. It seemed he could hear every breath taken by the men around him. Then the first stroke fell and he drew a ragged gasp. It had been a long time since he'd felt the sting of a martinet. The last time he could recall had been by his father when he was probably about eighteen for some foolish deed or another.

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on anything other than the white-hot tendrils of pain. He bit his lips, until he tasted blood. Athos had to be strong for the others. He knew they looked up to him, at least to some degree. So he held out, trying to be strong, at least for them. So they would know they had someone to lean on.

A task easier said than done when his rear throbbed in time to his heartbeat. But Athos was used to pain. He simply cleared his head, taking each blow silently as they came.

"You're finished, Athos." Treville's soft voice cut through Athos' mask.

His watering eyes snapped open. He realized he was panting. There was a warm pressure pressed against both hands. Ah, that would be Porthos and Aramis. His friends. His brothers.

"Porthos," The captain warned. He flexed his shoulder, and was suddenly very glad he had a strong sword arm. Administering seventy-five lashes was a harsh job.

Porthos took the first few blows easy enough. He sucked a deep breath and let it out lowly. Halfway through he was shifting on his feet and wincing. He licked his lips, blinking back tears. It always rather amazed him (and the others) that they could sustain all sorts of life-threatening injuries and not shed a tear, yet any sort of physical chastisement always left them sobbing like infants.

He stomped his foot, his hands twitching.

"Porthos," Athos muttered lowly.

On the other side of Athos, Aramis leaned his forehead against the wall. His arms were trembling. He couldn't decide which was worse, receiving the chastisement, listening to Athos' silent method, or listening to Porthos' small exclamations of pain.

It seemed like forever before Treville finally delivered the last lash. Porthos was breathing hard. His back heaved with each breath as he tried to swallow back any subsequent sobs.

"We're through," Treville murmured. He watched as the three young men let out simultaneous sighs of relief. None moved from their positions, however, their shoulders did sag slightly. The captain studied them carefully. He had been careful. He hadn't broken skin, nor had he hit hard enough for real bruising to form. His men would definitely rethink sitting for a couple of days, but they would be fine.

"I hope never to see any of you in this position again, understood? I don't like disciplining any of my men, and certainly not you three. You know I can be tolerable enough when it comes to the Red Guards, but when the king is involved I can't just let it go with a warning. I hope you have learned something from this. I would hate to see any of you hang over something as petty as a street brawl."

He squeezed Porthos and Athos' shoulders, and patted Aramis' back. Then he moved towards the armory again, calling over his shoulder. "Get dressed. I'll return in a moment."

The three musketeers stood stock-still for a full minute before beginning to shift on their trembling legs. Looking away from one another, they swiped their hands over their eyes before dressing slowly, an endeavor they found easier said than done. Aramis winced as he caught sight of his friends' backsides, knowing his own looked the same.

Eventually, the three friends were decent again, though a bit disheveled. They stood before Treville's desk again, waiting for their captain to return. Moments later they heard the tell-tale sound of boots on wood. Treville moved around to the other side his desk and sat heavily with a sigh, picking up his quill, dipping it in ink, and beginning to write. The musketeers glanced at one another before Athos cleared his throat and took a half step forward. Treville glanced upward. "Yes?"

"We were wondering, Captain, if it would be alright for us to return to our duties now?"

The captain leaned back in his chair, a sly smile curling under his mustache. "You wish to return to duties, today, right now?"

They didn't. It would be agony to ride a horse, and it would be hard to so much as walk without limping. None of the young musketeers offered an affirmation.

Treville shook his head, still smiling lightly. He picked up the book he had written in, blowing on the ink to dry it before turning it around for the three men to inspect. "I need your signatures."

Aramis wrinkled his nose. "It's a disciplinary log? You keep records of this type of thing?"

"Yes. I do. Now sign it."

After the three had done so, Treville moved the book off to the side and stood. The three young musketeers immediately straightened to attention as their captain spoke. He looked to each in turn, catching their eyes and holding them for a moment with his reassuring gaze. "I think that is all that will be required. The three of you are on bed rest for the rest of the day."

Aramis let out a dismayed, "But—" Treville shot him a glare that had Aramis quelling and unconsciously slipping his hands behind him before placing them at the small of his back. "Pardon," He said meekly.

Treville nodded, his face stern. "I expect to see you all here at first light for training tomorrow. You are dismissed."

He grasped each man's forearm in a last tight grip before ushering them out.

After the captain had returned to his business, the three stood in the antechamber, all three unwilling to take the long walk back to the garrison. Aramis gingerly rubbed his backside while Athos scrubbed a hand over his flushed face. Porthos leaned against the wall, only his shoulders touching the surface.

They were silent for a long moment. Then Porthos grabbed his nearest friend's arm. It happened to be Aramis, who whirled around. Porthos swallowed hard, his voice firm and sincere, "I'm sorry."

Aramis smiled faintly. "You have nothing to apologize for, my friend."

Athos stepped forward to grasp his chagrined friend's shoulder and shake him gently. "He's right. So was the captain. This was not simply your fault."

Porthos shook his head, but Athos continued, his voice firm, "Porthos. There is nothing to forgive, my friend."

Eyes welling, Porthos looked up. "Do you really mean it?"

Again no words were required as both Aramis and Athos threw an arm around Porthos' shoulders, and the three came together into a quick tight embrace.

"Didn't I order the three of you to bed?"

The three jumped back startled.

"Captain Treville!" Porthos exclaimed.

Treville's tone and face were stern, but his eyes glinted warmly. "Off with you, before I mark you down for insubordination too."

They all quickly ducked their heads with a chorus of "yes, sir" before scurrying off to their quarters.

Treville stood in the doorway a while longer and allowed a fond smile to tug at his lips. He shook his head, and rubbed a hand through his hair. He frowned. It really was getting pretty thin.

* * *

There was no point in hurrying. The slower they went, the less prominent their limp was and the less painful it was to walk. As they treaded down the steps Aramis slung an arm across Porthos' shoulders and pulled him close. Then he did the same to Athos with his other arm. "Gentlemen, I think we've all learned a valuable lesson here today."

"Don't piss off the captain."

"We're all a bunch of ninnies."

Aramis grinned. "I was gonna say remember to hide the bodies, but those work too."


End file.
